The Sword is Not the Kingdom
by Ramzes
Summary: Not a warrior. Not this impressive. Weak. Those are just part of the names they used to justify their decision to unseat him and place Daemon Blackfyre on his throne. And the worst thing is, they aren't wrong.
_The Sword Is Not the Kingdom_

 **Viserys**

With the passage of years, the Hand of the King had fallen into a routine that, while leaving very little room for serenity or, the Seven forbid, enjoyment, was one that worked for him. He rose before dawn and as he broke his fast, he reviewed the matters that he intended to present to the Small Council a little later. If he was in the small house at the side of Rhaenys's Hill, he'd look at the woman's sleeping form for a while before leaving. If he was in the Tower of Hand, he'd stroll the gardens, enjoying the fragrant smell of flowers and his unusual solitude. In this early hour, the only people he encountered were servants who would bow and then go about their own business. Then, the gathering of the council would be interrupted for dinner and renewed two hours later in the same chamber where sun only visited for a few brief hours a day and the air was always filled with the scent of wax from the lamps. Usually, the daily work was over about an hour before the evening feast that Viserys often attended only briefly, feeling that it took from the little time he had for himself, his books, the meetings with the few people that he enjoyed being with, and his time in the royal menagerie. Nights were his alone and as time passed, he found himself increasingly drawn to the side path climbing up Rhaenys's Hill and the few windows lit in the white wall. The fact that he was always welcome but never nagged as to when he'd return resonated with him more than he could say. That was a good way to end his day.

Especially when His Grace had decided to honour them with his presence at the meeting of the Small Council. Viserys couldn't remember the last time Baelor had had an _acceptable_ idea, let alone a good one but this went beyond anything sane or even safe that he still clung to believing there was in his nephew. The rest of the men were no happier.

"Closing the brothels?" the Master of Coin stammered, looking shocked. "Your Grace, this is… it won't be a wise thing."

"But it will be a _virtuous_ thing," Baelor replied and they all looked at Viserys as one, as if they didn't know this flash of resolve in his eye and expected that the Hand would be actually able to put this mad idea out of the King's head.

He' d try, of course, but he didn't put much faith in his option of succeeding. And he wouldn't do it today. He'd need a few hours to prepare his strategy. Abruptly, the enormity of the loss of Aegon came upon him as it did ever so often. The Broken King, they had called him. The sad one. The one who spent his life hiding, uncharming and unaffectionate. Not once had Viserys needed to make a strategy to keep the realm safe from him _. Did you know, brother? I think you did. You must have. Why else would you be so fervent in your insistence that I make a promise to keep them safe, your sons? Safe from themselves, that's what you meant. I know that now._ There were those who whispered that the King should be removed from power, that the one who did the ruling should take the title. Viserys wouldn't hear of it. And people were wise enough not to suggest anything like this to his face. Anyone who did might end up in the black cells on Viserys' own orders.

This new madness weighed heavily upon him when he had the Grand Maester and the master-at-arms admitted to his office. But at their approach, he smiled. The news from this angle were always good ones and indeed, the Grand Maester couldn't praise Viserys' grandson enough. The Hand had long thought Daeron wise and clear of purpose beyond his years but nonetheless it pleased him to hear it confirmed, every single time.

The master at arms, though… "Unfortunately, I cannot share the Grand Maester's opinion."

Ser Garon Welte was well known for his fiery temper and his propensity not to mince words. Viserys gave him a long look, already knowing that he'd hear something that wouldn't be to his taste at all.

* * *

Viserys hadn't been in practice yards for long in decades, since he had occasionally managed to make it there to watch his sons train. Who had the time? Even Aegon had spent longer periods of time there and it had been he who had first told Viserys that Aemon was exceptionally gifted indeed.

No one would ever say such a thing about Daeron. After the master-at-arms complained three times in a row and Viserys talked to the boy after each and every one to no avail, he finally made it to the yard to see for himself what all this trouble was about.

It was worse than anything he could have expected. So bad that he actually took from his time with the council to come regularly and observe. And see the same mistakes over and over, in posture, in walking, in the very holding of the sword, let alone wielding it. Finally, he couldn't stay true to his firm position that everyone should be left to do their duties without meddling and started meddling in Ser Garon's work.

"You aren't doing this movement the way it should be done, Daeron, do it the way they show you!"

"I am sorry," Daeron said quietly.

"Start again," Viserys said but he could already see that the boy was scared, desperate that he couldn't do anything right. For some reason that made everything worse and made Viserys' stay impossible. It was no work at all! And this from Daeron who was so determined to get better in any other area!

"Don't you place any value on Ser Garon and his assistants' time and efforts?" he would ask, exasperated.

"I do."

"Then why won't you _try_?"

To this, Daeron would have no answer.

It wasn't even his lack of prowess that angered Viserys. It was the lack of any _improvement_ to the current situation. They showed the boy the right stance but only a few movements later, he'd go back to the wrong one again; they'd tell him to hold the sword in one hand, but soon he'd go back to both.

"He isn't really trying," Viserys said darkly one evening at Rhaenys's Hill and it was only when Amara didn't make a reply, he realized that he had been expecting it of her. The purely physical relationship had started turning into true affection and something that he had never thought he'd find in a woman – companionship. At the moment, Amara was the woman who was most acquainted with all the dealings in the Seven Kingdoms, more than even Naerys who was only truly interested in her gods. Viserys was truly lucky that his bedwarmer had turned out to be a highly intelligent woman as well.

Her silence continued and he frowned, raising himself on his elbow and leaning over her waist to see her face. Under the brown locks falling on her cheek, she looked thoughtful.

"That's strange," she said slowly. "By the way you describe him, he isn't someone who wouldn't put forth an effort. And why wouldn't he try when he has to go there and train, no matter what? It isn't as if he'd be allowed to skip those lessons."

Viserys' breath caught. In a single brief moment, she had caught the discrepancy that he'd been blind to. It wasn't in Daeron's nature to shirk his duties, no matter how unpleasant he found them. It was _against_ his nature, actually.

"Your daughter isn't very strong physically, they say," Amara said carefully and squirmed a little to look him in the eye. "Are you sure he _can_ do what you want of him?"

* * *

Seven days later, the Hand of the King had his answer. "There is no doubt that there is a curve to the Prince's spinal column," the Grand Maester said. "We've found such cases described in our archives. Sometimes the twist starts when the child has seen about ten or twelve namedays."

 _Like Daeron_ , Viserys thought and wondered how he could have thought that with Naerys' frail health and all the babes that she had lost they could have been blessed with a child with no problems at all. "Can it be corrected?" he demanded.

The Grand Maester's chain rattled when he shook his head emphatically. "We can only try to restrain further damage," he said, "and alleviate His Grace's pains. But there is no cure that we know of. We don't know enough about the ailment itself."

So it wasn't neglect on Daeron's part. He was just in pain – pain that would not let him move freely, an ailment that wouldn't let him control his body in the manner needed for grasping more than the merest basics of martial art.

"Why didn't you tell anyone that you were in pain?" Viserys asked when later this day, he and his grandson were alone in his solar.

The boy looked at him and shrugged. "What would it have changed?" he asked. "I've looked out the symptoms in the books already. I knew there was no cure. And training is one of the things that I cannot not do." He paused. "I hoped that with time and purpose, I'd be able to get better."

 _Yes_ , Viserys thought, suddenly reminded of another boy, so long ago, who had clung to a dragon egg that simply wouldn't hatch. _Until now, you've never been faced with something that you couldn't conquer._

"It is," he said and the boy gave him a look of confusion. In the dying light of the warm day, Viserys had to finally face a truth that he so hated. He'd be king one day, and Aegon and Daeron after him. _It's good that you train him as a future monarch_ , Baela sometimes said, she and Rhaena being the only ones who dared speak so to his face. Each time, he got angry, snapping that they were talking treason and they insisted that it was no treason but realistic assessment of the situation. _Are they right_ , he wondered now, in the safety of his dark velvety couches and the bright flowers covering every surface, the only trace of his once so joyful personality. _Have I been preparing a king without admitting it?_ Aegon's face swam before him and Viserys finally committed the last treason. Not in deed – he'd never do Baelor harm. But he admitted to himself that Aegon's line would die out on the Iron Throne. There was no way to prepare Daena to be queen while she dwelled in that cursed tower. And she was too much like Daeron for Viserys to risk her ascension. She might finish what her brothers had set out to do, however inadvertently - destroying the realm. "Training," he elaborated. "It is indeed one of the things that you'll never do again besides the mere basics." He paused. "From tomorrow, you'll be accompanying me in the meetings of the Small Council – for an hour or so, in the beginning, and then more. I'll make changes in your studies as well and I'll increase the volume." He reached for his goblet of wine because his throat had gone suddenly dry. Could he really pull this off? Lords liked their kings martial and vagabond. Could Daeron's merits overcome this dangerous mindset? There was one thing that Viserys was sure of: Daeron shouldn't be seen as trying and failing and in the practice yard, that was all that he'd ever be able to do. "You'll get an education, the like of which has never been seen in our House, Daeron."

* * *

 **Mariah**

Sometimes, she felt as if she were living someone else's life and not her own. Surely her life was in the Old Palace, with its sandy air and noisy markets? With the people she had grown up with? With Mariah Martell whom she was reminded every moment of every day in her new life that she was no longer? Lately, when they made her ready for bed, she looked down at her changing body and felt that someone else had taken over it. And he had, of course. Her son. She was sure that it would be a boy, an heir to the realm, and yet sometimes she felt disconnected, as if this little creature calling her body home had nothing to do with her. She had longed for so long to be a woman, yet often she felt like a child. A child carrying a child.

Daeron was late tonight. Mariah curled around her belly, not caring just how graceless she looked. Was this the night he'd do what they all whispered about, expected gleefully, just to show the Dornish girl that she couldn't make this many changes? As smitten as Daeron looked with her, she could no longer satisfy his needs. It would only be natural for him to take another, even Mariah's own mother had taught her so. Everyone was surprised that with Mariah so far along, he had not.

She wondered if she should turn to the other side. But she'd be just as uncomfortable soon. It was her big belly that was the problem, not her posture. And while she wouldn't mind the short reprieve, she couldn't turn without her newly sensitive swollen breasts brushing against the cover. She had long given up on nightgowns, they only prickled her skin now. So she stayed where she was, listening with her entire being. And then she heard it. The door. He entered like a black shadow that took colour and shape when he came to her bedside. "Did I wake you up?" he asked. "I'm sorry," he apologized.

"I wasn't asleep," Mariah said, feeling only relief that once again, he had kept faith with her. No matter the ugly rumours. No matter how many were trying to force them apart. She didn't add that she had been waiting for him.

"I have something for you," Daeron said and she smiled. It didn't matter what the surprise was, it was enough that it was from him. But when the juice filled her mouth, she opened her eyes that she had closed in anticipation.

"Oh Daeron, you haven't forgotten what I've been telling you about blood oranges!"

"They don't look this bloody," he said, smiling, feeding her another bit, and then snapped the cover away to watch with wonder as the child turned inside her, as if he, too, appreciated the taste of his mother's favourite delicacy. Daeron reached over and placed his hand over the movement to feel it. Sometimes, Mariah was stricken at how young they both were. He was seventeen, she just sixteen. They were not much more than children themselves. She had been stunned to find out that he had feared their future as much as she had.

"Try some," she invited and fed him a slice as he was doing with her.

"Just one," he said. "There are two of you to keep sated and only one of me."

So they shared the orange – two slices in time for Mariah and one for Daeron. And then, with him here, she felt suddenly weary. Her eyes were drifting close when the expression on his face as he undressed made her snap to attention, wide awake all of a sudden. He wasn't looking at her but there could be no doubt as to what it was there, all over his features: pain, excruciating pain. Mariah said nothing as he slipped in bed beside her, throwing an arm about her. But his uneven breathing finally made her dare.

"Would you like it if I rub your back?"

In reply, there was only a short hiss of breath and then silence. But having once made the step, she could not go back. "Please. I know you're in pain…"

"Is it so evident?" he finally asked and the anger and mortification in his voice made her eyes well up. It was this evident, to her who saw him undressed. The twist was very obvious and it had angered her at first. Disgusted her. Made her feel robbed when she had realized that she'd never be carried upstairs or even to bed as even the lowliest serving girls were. That he'd never be able to measure up to the desert warriors that she had so admired. He'd never be the mighty knight of her dreams of a young girl. But that was in the past. Now, all that she cared about was that this twist caused him pain.

She turned clumsily, the discomfort of the covers forgotten. He didn't look at her. Mariah reached over and drew her fingers along his spine, her fingers stroking the deformed curve very, very lightly. "Not as evident as it is painful," she murmured, still stroking his spine, as if she were trying to straighten it out. "Will you let me?" she asked again.

Slowly, he turned his head back to her, looked her in the eye bravely, nodded. Mariah rose to fetch one of the vials with ointments that she had brought all the way from Sunspear.

"Lie on your stomach," she murmured, leaning on her elbow behind him. He did and when she first traced the outline of the twist with a soft smoothing motion, she suddenly felt closer to him than even the night when they had created this new life pulsing between them.

* * *

 **The End**

 **A. N. I must give credit for this idea to a post in a quite nice (and new to me) blog that I, unfortunately, lost the address of when they were fighting the Evil Average that left half the neighbourhood without internet access.**


End file.
